


Close Quarters

by adjectivebear (HealerAriel)



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: (lol what finale?), Accidental Voyeurism, Canon Is Not Welcome Here, F/M, Masturbation, people and things that ship Ichabbie #698: the wall between their bedrooms, perving on one's biblical life partner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 04:51:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7963120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HealerAriel/pseuds/adjectivebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The walls in their house are thinner than Abbie realized.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Quarters

  
Abbie knows things about Crane that she can’t unknow.

She knows he can and will polish off half a gallon of ice cream in one sitting and leave his used spoon right in the carton. She knows he sheds like a damn sheepdog. She knows that unless he’s superhumanly diligent about keeping his underwear out of the laundry, he doesn’t actually wear any.

And now it looks–or, more accurately, _sounds_ –like she’s going to know each time he has a date with Rosie Palms.

When she heard the first soft moan through the (apparently _extremely_ thin) wall separating their rooms, she’d wondered if he’d brought a special friend over; if, despite all logic, he’d made up with Zoey, or met someone equally dazzled by his Crane-ness whom he simply hadn’t mentioned to her yet. But he’d gone to bed shortly after she had, she hadn’t heard the telltale chime of the alarm system that accompanied the door being opened, and there’d only been one set of footsteps in the hall. 

Nope. Crane’s being his _own_ special friend.

And it sounds like he’s doing a _really_ good job of it.

Abbie stares ruefully at the ceiling. Awkward as this is for _her_ , she can’t really blame him. He’s a young guy who, by his own admission, hasn’t had sex since 1781 (though how the fuck they’d gotten onto _that_ topic in the first place remains a mystery), so it’s no wonder he needs a little release.

But she _can_ –and emphatically _does_ –blame _herself_ for the tingle of arousal between her legs. For God’s sake, the man is her friend, her roommate, and her biblically pre-ordained partner. It is so, so, _so_ deeply inappropriate to perv on his little self-love session, no matter _how_ well she can hear him _or_ how cute he happens to be. 

Or, if she’s being completely honest with herself, how many times she’s thought about getting him to make those sounds herself. How clearly she can picture him in her head now, naked, the blankets pushed down around his lean hips; his eyes closed and his lips parted, his flat stomach quivering as one of those huge hands works over his–

“Fuck,” she spits, admitting moral failure as she reaches for her vibrator. She briefly entertains the very real possibility that he could hear it, but reminds herself that it’s not like he’d know _what_ he was hearing, and would likely be too embarrassed by the realization that they could hear each other through the wall to bring it up, anyway.

The loudest moan yet sounds as she switches it on, and her eyes roll back in her head as the vibrations penetrate her throbbing, aching flesh. She tries not to think about anything–to impassionately fulfill a biological need and be done with it with as much decency as the current situation allows. But her mind betrays her, bombarding her with images of him pleasuring himself; images of him pleasuring _her_ , his pink lips suckling her nipples, his fingers thrumming at her clit; images of sitting astride his hips, raking her fingernails through his chest hair while she rides his dick, pulling all those delicious fucking sounds from his throat–

She comes hard, biting down on her hand to stifle any sound. She repositions the vibrator slightly and forces another, and another, switching it off only when her body is so spent that her inner muscles can give only the barest of clenches when she comes.

She sighs–exhausted, deeply sated–and lays back against her pillow. On the other side of the wall there is silence, and she wonders, quite unintentionally, if their team wank session ended in mutual orgasm.

She groans at herself, throwing her arm over her eyes. “What is _wrong_ with you, girl?”

Abbie can’t quite meet Crane’s eyes in the morning.

If she could have, she might have noticed that he can’t quite meet hers, either.


End file.
